Black
by Just Inevitable
Summary: 'It seems there is always an occasion for black.' Post Christmas Special 2012. (1/1 for now. I may continue)


i.

A wet blanket had fallen upon Downton – a devastating, heavy veil, weighted upon the weathered bricks. Black, of course – it seems there is always an occasion for black. It keeps the sun away even when it shined, traps only rain, casts only shadows. But stone is unfeeling. It remains indifferent to such weathers; it doesn't ask for sunlight, doesn't mind the rain. The house would survive, after all. It has seen many seasons. Its towers would still stand – between hues of red and gold, or under winter's breath. Downton had an heir, and in the end it was all that mattered, really. The estate was fully financed again, a new heir had been born – a bouncing baby boy – to carry their name forward. They had done their jobs.

And so, it doesn't matter that behind these lifeless bricks, there is another kind of lifelessness. A conscious one, one that knows the difference between summer raindrops and snowflakes. Where life itself does not lack, but where death had overthrown in. It doesn't matter that yet another child has been brought into this house, never to see his parents together. That another young life has been taken, and another one had been left behind, to bear it all alone. The choked sounds of two broken hearts, a wife's and a mother's, are trivial, after all, in the grand scheme of things.

And though he liked to think he was carved from the same stone, to him, it matters. Certainly, he believes in the grand scheme, of preserving the legacy, but still, it matters. Carson knows she is broken now. He is broken himself, as he looks into her eyes – they no longer sparkle, have no light for the child she bore. Had seen them tortured by the news the day she came home, seen how they filled with disbelieving tears. They're hollow now, like he's looking through glass. Sees her soul on the other end, maybe, and that's why he takes care of everything. Hadn't let himself mourn for the loss of the young boy who'd brought so much happiness to the family, to her. Hadn't asked any questions when he saw the body, hadn't said anything of consequence, really. Rather, he'd stepped up immediately, busied himself in taking care of all the arrangements, the funeral, so that they – _she_ – wouldn't have to. His Lady Mary. Of course she is his. It is because she is his, that he made a list of things that needed doing, that he'd missed his tea, his dinners. And that finally, in the early hours of the mornings, he'd collapsed in his bed to let sleep overtake him.

ii.

"They're asking for you."

Carson looks up to see Mrs. Hughes standing in his doorway, with soft eyes and hands folded in front of her. He hasn't seen her since it happened, not really. Had caught glimpses of her over the last few days, with her quiet bustling efficiency, taking care of things at her end. He'd passed her a list of things that needed attending to – given her the guest list so she could make up the rooms, scribbled a note about an indoor tea after the service – and she'd taken it from his fingers without a word. Had held his gaze more than a few times, worried – she was always worried about him – and when they passed each other in the corridors, she'd asked if she could get him anything, hissed that he hadn't been eating. He'd nodded vacantly, assured her he was fine, that he'd eaten, but he had to go now and that would see her later. And on the day, she had stood beside him as he informed the staff that Mr. Crawley was gone, and it painfully resembled the night they lost Lady Sybil. But she was there, at least. Always there, steady and warm, by his side – _on_ his side. But no, he hadn't really _seen_ her.

"Yes. Yes, of course. Thank you," he says, pulling himself up from the chair.

She doesn't move from his doorframe; just stands there and watches as he straightens his jacket, adjusts his tie. _What are you doing to yourself? _He can almost hear her ask him, imploring with sad eyes. _Taking care of my family_, he replies, holding her gaze, jutting out his chin. He means to walk past her – they need him, after all – but there is something in her manner that stops him, causes him to pause and turn to her fully. And now that she is here, he sees her. Sees how tired she is, herself. Her shoulders are sagging, her eyes are rimmed with shadows. And they're close now, too close. But he's too exhausted to count how many inches are between them, to talk himself out of touching her. So he does – briefly lets the back of his fingers brush her shoulder, her arm, means to pull away immediately. He means to, truly. But her eyes are filling with tears as she looks up at him now, and she's covering her mouth with one hand. It hurts him to see her like this, hurts him in the pit of his stomach. But they cannot do this now. _He_ cannot do this now. So he takes hold of her arm, gentle but firm, and steadies her, himself. Gives her a small smile.

"I'll see you later?"

She blinks at him, and it seems to take her a second to understand he isn't brushing her off; that he is making plans, asking, to see her later. Much later in the evening, probably, in either his quarters or hers. "Yes, you will."

He nods, pulls his hand away now. "Good."

iii.

He doesn't see her for the rest of the day. Thinks maybe he saw her chignon leave the room as he enters from the other side, that he hears her Scottish lilt in the midst of the quiet murmurs in the kitchens. It's hard to say though, since everyone had started speaking in whispers. Hard to see when it seems damp and grey now, though he's quite sure the sun is shining outside. He wants to talk to her again, thinks of a reason he might need to, but can't find a one. And he knows he won't get to see her at all when he is asked to stay an extra two hours in the drawing room, after dinner. He'd spent his own dinnertime trying to coax Lady Mary from her bedroom. Had gone on his own accord, and found just the shadow of her, staring at the sleeping baby, in her arms. (George would be his name, Lord Grantham said.) The curtains had been drawn, and her pale skin almost shone in the darkness. He'd said nothing for some long minutes, merely stood in front of her and watched the boy, his even breathing, his innocence.

Finally, she had spoken. "Why must he look so much like him?"

His reply was immediate. "So you never forget he loved you, Milady."

She'd trembled then, had almost dropped the boy, and he'd been there to catch them both. He'd wrapped his arms around them and let her cry into his shoulder, the way she had done all her life, in those moments when it seemed nothing would be right again. How many times had he done this, said all the right things? Had taken her side, even if she was in the wrong? No, to him, she was never wrong. How many times had he told her that she'd get through it? The thought clenched at his heart then, as he wondered if she would, actually, get through this one.

"I'd give it all back, Carson," she sobbed. "The baby, the money, all those wasted chances… everything. Anything, if it meant one more day with him."

He thought he understood the prospect of wasted chances, had wondered briefly what she meant by the money, but it hadn't mattered. He held her tighter, rubbed her back. "I know you would, Milady."

"If only we'd been married before the war. We could have had more time together… I've wasted so much time."

iv.

Mrs. Hughes had appeared at the door with a soft knock, carrying a tray of sandwiches, had let the light from the corridor spill into the room. Hadn't seemed too surprised to find Carson there, holding the girl, didn't say anything as she met his eyes and he loosened his grip. He had walked to her side then, out of habit mostly, stood so she was on his right.

"I've brought you a tray, Milady."

He'd watched as Lady Mary straightened her back, how she'd inclined her head in what would have been a nod before. How even now, in her colourless skin and grief, she was beautiful. And he'd heard the softness in Mrs. Hughes' voice; the compassion that was usually reserved for Anna or Daisy, that had never existed for Lady Mary before. He'd noticed how she had tried to meet the widow's eyes, to give her a little smile. Not that professional smile she had perfected, but the one he saw sometimes when they sat in his pantry and he brought up his past, or on the day before her birthday. It was a true smile, a truly sorry one.

"Would you like me to take him?" Mrs. Hughes asked, extending her arms. Lady Mary had blinked, and passed the baby to her – without objection, without so much as sparing a glance at the boy.

"You won't… come downstairs then, Milady?" Carson had asked.

"No, Carson."

It was all the reply he had received. He'd waited for a long moment, to see what she would do – if she would pick up the tea, or if she had anything left to say. She did neither. Simply stared at the space in front of her, a pale statue with hollow eyes. A part of him had fallen to its knees then, wanted to tell her he couldn't bear to see her this way, that they all missed her. That her family couldn't afford to lose another daughter, another child. That _he_ couldn't bear to lose her to her grief. His eyes had welled up then, and he'd taken a step forward to tell her this, to beg if he had to, but a gentle pressure on his back had stopped him. Mrs. Hughes shook her head. _Leave her now_. He had pressed his lips together. _I can't. I can't lose her_. She'd shaken her head again, one arm supporting the baby, one hand patting his back, leading him away.

v.

"He really does look like his father," she murmured, caressing the baby's cheek.

He had listened and gone with her (hadn't he always?), decided she knew best. (Didn't she always?) He was still upset however, when he shut the door behind them. Exhaling slowly, he had tried to compose himself, going over the day's checklist in his mind twice by then, ensuring he hadn't forgotten anything. Made a small sound of acknowledgement at her words as he watched the infant over her shoulder; her tender touches and small smile, her motherly stance.

And when he'd breathed in, he could smell her good, earthy scent, could feel the muscles in his neck loosen just a little. He dimly realised that she smelled of home. His home. The weariness had caught up with him then – the scent of her wafting in his senses, the image of them standing there in the softly lit corridor swathing his hazy thoughts. She was so close, and he was so tired, and for a moment he thought that he would have liked to press his cheek against her hair – that it would be like silk against his skin – just to rest there for a moment, if he could.

"They'll be going into dinner, in a minute," she'd said, quietly.

"I know," he'd breathed, a soft rumble in her ear.

Still, neither had moved. She too, seemed content to just stand with him, breathe with him. And so, he had relaxed his shoulders, had let his eyes flutter close, if only just for a second. Thinking back now, he still isn't entirely sure if he had fallen asleep or simply lost himself in the moment, but distinctly recalls the feel of her back against his chest, her shoulder over his heart. He still isn't sure if it had really happened, if her luscious hair had brushed against his face or if he'd burrowed his cheek against her, but maybe it didn't matter.

He had pulled away, of course. Eventually – after a few minutes, perhaps. Had cleared his throat, mumbled an apology, looked away from her eyes. "I – uh – best get downstairs, Mrs. Hughes."

vi.

Perhaps the rain is a small blessing, in a tragedy such as this. The barest slivers of a silver lining in those grey clouds looming above them, now, as they stand in the cemetery. A huddled group of black coats and umbrellas – there is always an occasion for black, it seems – they stand together for the service, fronting a dreary landscape. It seems more appropriate, Carson thinks, than all the bird music and bright blue skies they'd been getting. That is, if there ever could be an appropriate time to bury someone so young – someone who'd been so full of spark and life, just days ago. But still, perhaps it is better that the raindrops muddle with the tears; that the hard, heavy downpour swallows their sobs, their grief. He feels so small now, so insignificantly tiny, with the high skies and large mountains in the distance, and wonders briefly, if the fact he is still alive is just a matter of chance, if he could go any second now. From the corner of his eye, he can see Mrs. Hughes standing beside him, and remembers the fear that had almost swallowed him whole when he thought he might lose her, wonders if it was only by chance that he has her in his life, still.

He closes his eyes for a moment, to shake the thought away, to will the tears not to fall. Focuses on the family; Lady Edith and Lady Cora, Tom Branson, their heads bowed, The Dowager Countess with her back turned slightly. She is holding someone, and after a moment, he realises it is Mrs. Crawley in her arms. Dear Mrs. Crawley, who has no one left in the world anymore. Who'd come and shaken them all up a bit during the war, who he'd never seen eye to eye with, but still. _Still_, his heart aches for her – _still_, a mother should never have to bury her child. Then, as the casket lowers, he can see Lord Grantham holding his eldest daughter for dear life, weeping for the boy he had come to love as a son. Lady Mary's shoulders wracking against his chest, face buried in his neck. A small part of him longs to be the one holding her, he realises, as his own tears begin to fall. The part of him that isn't a butler, the part that's still a small semblance of a man, the part that loves her as his own child.

It has been years since he's cried, he thinks. Even on the night they lost Lady Sybil, he'd been able to keep the tears at bay – barely, but he had done it, had slept it off, had thrown himself into the ledgers, into polishing the silver until he got used to her absence, could bury the pain – And he's lying, _lying_ to even himself now, dammit. He had cried, that one night, months ago. Of course he had cried. He still remembers the day he'd heard the news, from the Doctor and then Mrs. Patmore, how he'd stood helplessly as Mrs. Hughes brushed him off over and over, preferring to talk of the bloody luncheons and dinners than her own health. Yes, they'd been bloody to him at the time, when he'd sunk into his bed at night, had heard her sobbing on the other side of the wall that separated their bedrooms. Remembers how he had wept into his hands, had pulled at his hair, pounded his fists against that blasted wall. How he had longed to go to her. How he wanted to hold her, kiss her, push her down onto the bed, convince himself that it wasn't too late, that she could never be taken from him –

The tears come now, unrelentingly, hot and salty against his lips, and he doesn't think he could stop the trembling of his shoulders anymore, even if he tries. Perhaps he shouldn't try, he thinks wildly, perhaps it isn't healthy to keep so much pain, emotion, bottled up for as long as he had. Perhaps he is crying now for all of them; Lady Sybil and Branson, Mr. Matthew and Lady Mary, their children, their parents, his own parents, for Mrs. Hughes – for his family. He can see blurry shapes now as he scrubs at his face, pushing the tears, the rain, away. The shapes of the Lords and Ladies on the other side of the grave, the silhouettes of his own colleagues nearby. O'Brien, Thomas and the boys standing solemnly in a line, Mr. Bates with his arm around Anna, Mrs. Patmore holding Daisy's hand – thinks perhaps that yes, they are his family, too.

And then someone is holding his own hand, wrapping her small fingers around his palm. _Don't cry, Mr. Carson_, she is saying, without words, without so much as turning. Though she herself is trembling from the cold, from the sadness. He tugs softly at her, tugs at her hand so that she will stand with him, arms touching, palms pressed together tightly. _I love you, Mrs. Hughes_, he says. _I love you._


End file.
